


Faster Than Angels Fly

by wired



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Amnesia, Drinking Games, Flying, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-31
Updated: 2009-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wired/pseuds/wired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you're going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance.</p><p><i>Some souls only know one speed<br/>Faster than angels fly</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Faster Than Angels Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ion_bond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ion_bond/gifts).



> Written for the Marvel Movie Crossover event on LJ.
> 
> Prompt: Logan has never met him before, as far as he can remember. Remy is playing his cards close to the vest, but Scott notices how strange he's acting ...

Scott really hates being jealous. Bonus annoying points for being jealous when he has no right to it. God. Maybe the kids were leaking psychic emo kid hormonal weirdness. Maybe he's not jealous. Maybe it's indigestion. Maybe this Gambit guy is not actually radiating macho-trickster-god-cum-kicked-puppy. Yeah.

Remy is not sulking, by the way. He knows the guy is brain-damaged. And that the memory may never come back. "Superheros" are terribly prone to traumatic brain injury. Also barroom brawlers. Eventually, a guy just gets punch drunk permanent-like. Betting against that is like betting on true love. And the very worst thing to do with a guy who can't remember three things in a row is ask him if he remembers something. In Remy's experience, it just leads to getting hit. But he can't forget. Not enough concussions, somehow. He can't forget dancing across the sky, skating through the clouds. The thin icy haze of the atmosphere holding up his plane, and the autopilot skipping them toward an unknown future, he can't forget. But Logan has. He's forgotten the grapple, and Remy arcing under his hands like a fan of cards. It hurts that he's forgotten. Fortunately, a lucky man is can always find the next good thing, n'est-ce pas?

Logan is paring his nails with his flipknife. Knife needs sharpening.

Scott runs his thumb down the collective of the jet. He wants to drive it faster against the air, he wants to feel like he does when he drives the motorcycle after Logan's been stealing it, as if the motorcycle had tasted blood speed. Logan is sitting back there oblivious. He never flirts, doesn't seem to know how to flirt. The handful of times he and Logan have been naked, there's always been some cataclysmic emotional trigger. Probably it's a good thing for Scott's sexual urges that being an X-Man involves a statistically significant number of cataclysmic emotional events. Anyway, Logan is in the back of the jet ignoring him and the cardsharp with equal indifference. Is that a win? Scott doesn't know, and he tries to pay attention to the icing sensors. And not the fancyboy's perfume, which is nothing like Logan's pine-needles-and-Irish-Spring sharpness. Flying. He's flying.

Remy is idly bridging the cards between his hands and trying not to pay attention to the sharp-cut, stern-jawed, hyperheroic guy in the pilot's seat. Scott looks like he's got his jaw clenched. Furthermore, he looks like jaw-clenching is a maneuver he practices a lot. What is he so bent about? He's a pup, so it doesn't seem likely that he is also a victim of Logan's erratic memories of the past, and from what Remy can tell, his lady is a fine piece of ass, and furthermore, he gets to fly the plane. Remy want to fly the plane, AND he wants to sleep with the ladyfriend, AND he wants whatever it is that keeps arcing out from Scott to Logan. Remy puts away the cards before he bends them out of stress and takes to flipping a coin back and forth across his fingers. The little corona of energy around the coin is subtle enough that he can probably keep doing it without anyone gettin' edgy.

Logan takes out a keychain-sized piece of hard Arkansas white and starts drawing his knife across it. Scott smells edgy, but he usually does around Logan. What's weird is that the new guy, Gambit, also smells stressed. Stressed and familiar. Well, there are only so many aftershaves in the world, and it's taken years for Logan to get so he could sit in the jet without flipping out, so he can't call a guy on not liking the friendly skies.

Remy is bored and stressed, and and this flight was going to last until hell freezes over and the little devils go skating on the ice. "Hey, mon ami, you in the rose-colored spectacles. Is there a liquor cabinet in this stealth jet? Because I'll bet short, fuzzy, and cranky here would be a hair less twitchy if I made him an Alabama Slammer, and then worked my way down through Bahama Mama... why, by the time we got to Hurricane, he wouldn't give a damn about anything."

Scott chuckles. "We run a school. We keep all the liquor AND the whipped cream in a special cabinet that only a telepathic key can open. The plane doesn't have liquor, and if it did, it sure as hell would not have a rum stash like that." He keeps his eyes on his instruments, willing himself not to remember any unforgettable rum-soaked night. Wishing he didn't see what he saw. Wondering what to do about it.

Remy turns around to Logan, who was glowering at him. "It's a long flight. You're not bored? Drinking is out, neither of you will gamble with me, some things in here don't respond too well to telekinetic bolts.... I guess there's always fucking." It was worth it. Logan's eyes got wide, the way a guy's might if an old girlfriend showed up toting a little baby. Remy has always thought of this as the OHSHIT look, and lots of guys get it when they're about to get hit with a barstool. Logan just looks irritated about barstools, but something says that this is not the first time he's had suspicions about where his action figure has been. And then that wide-eyed look gets even wider, whites showing all around the brown as he falls toward Remy, as the plane falls, and there is a brief moment when nothing falls because the plane is diving that steeply, that gravity got left in the clouds. Scott is chanting a steady monotone of blasphemy. Logan pushes off from the wall toward Remy, and engulfs him, willing his body around Remy's his skin to cover, to take whatever hurt is coming. His ribs to break. Logan trusts Scott to be strapped in, trusts him to pull the plane out if he can, trusts him to be ok, because he has been so far.

Logan takes a deep breath, because after all these years, he can't break himself of the habit, even though the lung pressure makes it that much more painful when his ribs break. Not that they break any more, but Logan has trouble remembering which pot of shit he's falling into, which old habit to break, so he just goes with them -- protecting the weak, growling at everyone else, taking a deep breath before he gets shot or pulverized. Then he takes another breath.

Falling takes a long time when you're weightless. It's just like flying that way.

On the second breath, the flashbacks start. Remy arcing in the darkness as he sits astride Logan's hips, their bodies limned with witch light. Remy betting Logan he can get Logan off by the count of 50, and losing by 3. Remy, tired, dragging the hose to refuel the plane across some sweet magnolia-scented tarmac where the air was soft as the womb. Remy fucking Logan into howling, cushion-killing distraction as the little plane detoured around a storm system.

Logan wants to push him away, but Remy's arms are wrapped across his back, and Logan forgets which habit he was trying to forget, or remember, and just holds him. Just another lover, out of so many, but special, because he was still alive, not used in a ploy, not lost, not wounded, not someone else's. A little bit of spark. A good luck charm.

Remy is still watching him process all the memories, his eyes flicking and jittering like a shell game, when he realizes that they're not dead.

They're rolled into the corner, tangled up in each other, but the plane is not falling, or tipped.

Scott waits another couple seconds to be sure they've had time, and then calls back, "Sorry! Bird strike." He hears the door to the galley slam shut, and grins, and then sets the autopilot back on and lifts his glasses to grind his palms against his closed eyes. A good team leader knows what his people want before they do. And a good team leader does not .... aw, hell.

He checks the autopilot again, and walks back in the plane, until he's outside the galley door. It's thin ice to ask Logan to let him in in front of other people. Dangerous, and it may crack everything into oblivion. But sometimes, even when it hurts, you have to live a little dangerously.


End file.
